


Selfish

by stephanericher



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 17:06:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8900725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: Maybe this is what it’s like to feel the Force around you, tangible and graceful (and Galen likes to think it’s no coincidence they met, saw each other, connected, that the Force brought them together like a Jedi knight and the core of their lightsaber).





	

Time is running out. He wasn’t given much to begin with; he can’t cause another schedule slip this late in the game, as good as he has become at lying and distributing the blame. The engineering team knows enough to know when he’s bluffing about the structure, and they’re good imperials. They’d call him out on it in front of Krennic, and none of the possible resulting scenarios are pleasant. None of them are hopeful; none of them involve the knowledge of this flaw not dying with him.

He has to tell Bodhi soon. But the ocean of soon melting into someday and the completion of the weapon being over the horizon is gone; it’s just a puddle at his feet and it’s about to evaporate. The days are numbered, and yet—next time. It has to be next time.

“When are you coming next?”

“A few days,” says Bodhi. “I’m going back to the base; then I’ll swing back here before going to Jedha. Why?”

“I want to clear my schedule.”

It’s a half-truth, and if only that were all of it. If only Galen were just an engineer infatuated with a young cargo pilot; if only he were clearing his schedule for some grand romantic gesture instead of important information that could get them both killed and destroy the chance Galen’s dedicated fifteen years and thrown away his life and any moral standing he’d ever had to create. And if only it wouldn’t be the last time.

“I’m sorry my layover’s not long this time—”

Galen reaches out a hand to cover Bodhi’s. Bodhi turns his palm upward, squeezes three fingers around the edge of Galen’s hand. Warm brown eyes flicker up to meet Galen’s and, oh. It’s like the first time Galen had noticed the determination in his face, the first time Bodhi had looked back at him and then quickly looked away, the first time Galen had realized how much he could trust him (the first time he’d counted how many rules they’d bent or broken already, how much hope he’d already placed in Bodhi, how fervently he’d already believed).

And then Bodhi leans forward and places his mouth on Galen’s, soft and shallow like wading off a sandbar. No, there is not much time; but he can’t waste it just thinking about how little they have.

* * *

Bodhi falls asleep after they have sex, lazy smile pressed into Galen’s thigh, loose hair fanning out around him on the pillow. Like this, his face is free from the worry and anxiety that always creep back in, legitimate as they are (he knows what he’s delivering; he knows when it’s nothing good, when it’s weapons to kill civilians and when it’s resources taken from the needy, and he still delivers it, feels the guilt of his own complicity the same way Galen does it, wears it like a full-body brace that restricts his movement).

Galen can’t sleep, though. He gives it a go, worms his way under the covers and repositions Bodhi around him and closes his eyes, but the sanitized light slips beneath his eyelids and the familiar smattering of rain against the viewscreen is a distraction. He tries not to think, to fill his mind with schematics and bolts, the most mundane sections of the Death Star, but it all leads back to the reactor, the faults he’d traced over and over in his mind like a poem recitation. Half an hour and he’s no closer; he sits back up and leans against the wall. There’s nothing outside the viewscreen but another rock; there’s no reason to put the damn things in (perhaps whoever had built the facility had decided that this lovely view was more conducive to despair and obedience than a blank wall, and maybe they were right).

It’s easy to dwell like this, with the lights low and the rain in the background, like the holodramas he used to watch as a kid, the pensive hero given a poetic moment alone. Not that there’s anything poetic or heroic about this, not that he’s able to contemplate anything more than his own nontrivial selfishness. Bodhi’s hand curls around the edge of the sheet, and he makes some kind of half-word sound. Galen’s throat constricts. It was selfish of him to drag Bodhi into this in the first place, and asking all this of him is only piling more selfishness on top of everything else. Yes, it’s for the future and it’s hope for the Rebellion and hope for Bodhi to make up for the things he knows he’s done, but this is Galen’s issue and he’s not quite clever or brave enough to find a way to do it himself. But it’s even more selfish to, still, wish no harm to befall him, to keep delaying the weight of the information. His shoulders are more than capable, his heart more than large enough.

Galen reaches across to thumb over Bodhi’s chest, feel the steady beat of his heart that comes with each breath. It hammers against his palm like an overactive circuit, with pure energy. Maybe this is what it’s like to feel the Force around you, tangible and graceful (and Galen likes to think it’s no coincidence they met, saw each other, connected, that the Force brought them together like a Jedi knight and the core of their lightsaber). At any rate, it’s probably the closest he’s going to get, and he’d settle for this moment even if he didn’t have to.

Bodhi stirs, jerking his hand up and smacking Galen’s wrist before he can pull back. His eyes snap open at the contact, and Galen swears under his breath. It doesn’t hurt, really, but it’s still a bit of a shock, and for a moment they just stare at each other.

“Hey,” Bodhi whispers, voice cracking with sleep. “What is it?”

“Nothing. Just you.”

Bodhi yawns, jaw cracking. Galen yawns back, aware now of the weariness in his body, in every bone and muscle and tendon.

“Come to sleep,” Bodhi says, pulling him down.

His skin is warm; his arms are strong; Galen fades out with little more thought than that.

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact: i went to see r1 a second time today with a half-written fic in my word doc. i came home afterward and wrote this instead. 
> 
> also i haven't written anything in forever so if this sounds rusty then uh yeah that's the reason


End file.
